


When Spirits Screw Up

by Lucyverse



Category: Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Switching bodies, Thomas is a smitten kitten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14050824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyverse/pseuds/Lucyverse
Summary: [[REUPLOAD]] Tired of the ongoing unrest that remains between John and Kocoum, Pocahontas appeals to Grandmother Willow in hope that she may aid them in resolving their differences.Said plan malfunctions horribly when their bodies accidentally switch during the night, forcing both men to experience life through each other's eyes until they agree to form a truce.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to reupload this story after changing the plot a bit, seeing as I didn't like where it was going before. Hopefully I can actually finish it this time.

It’s _really_ getting to be a bore, this ongoing silence.

Pocahontas has no idea how two people can go for so long without speaking to each other. But it appears to come naturally to both her husband and her previously betrothed, who now sit on either end of a fallen log without acknowledging each other's presence; not even exchanging a single, solitary glare that would at least let her know they are aware that the other is alive and breathing.

Realistically, she shouldn't expect anything less. Despite Kocoum (finally) letting bygones be bygones and no longer wanting John’s innards for wall decoration, the odds of the pair ever meeting eye to eye is tragically not in her favour. There will always be that awkward, indisputable reminder that John swept in from a world beyond the sea and stole the warrior’s princess right from under his nose. That story is still immensely popular at the tribal suppers, much to Kocoum’s chagrin.

Pocahontas had pinned all her hopes on Thomas at first. Her father is adamant that their people take the settlers under their wing to avoid any fatal misunderstandings and the clumsy, albeit kind-hearted young man has been assigned Kocoum as his mentor, with the rather improbable expectation that he might be able to teach the boy a thing or two about hunting. Only a blind man could miss how Thomas’s heart does somersaults whenever the emotionally stunted warrior is nearby, even when Kocoum is glaring at him fiercely after he scares off their catch with his graceless stumbling.

But for some bizarre reason that Pocahontas cannot fathom, relations between two men back in England is considered blasphemy and this ingrained paranoia has Thomas ducking away in shame whenever Kocoum so much as brushes past him. It hardly matters anyway; Kocoum is so infuriatingly oblivious, Pocahontas would have to draw him a picture before he could even begin to comprehend the idea of being intimate with a white man.

So, it’s up to _her_ to cool the bubbling tension between John and Kocoum before it can escalate to something dreadful. But it’s like pulling teeth.

Despite reminding him several times that their passive aggressive “truce” is in no way beneficial to either the villagers or the Virginia Company, John doesn't seem to believe that a healthy relationship with his former rival is of any great importance.

Kocoum won’t even comment on the matter. He lets out one of his famous, dismissive grunts whenever Pocahontas brings it up in conversation and continues with whatever business he is attending to as if she isn’t there - which sometimes includes gutting a dead animal and draining its blood out onto her feet.

After several long, dragging months of this quiet game, Pocahontas considers the alarming possibility that she _might_ be overreacting. After all, she concludes, events could have turned out a lot worse – the very fact they haven’t gotten around to killing each other is nothing short of a miracle. 

Nakoma keeps nagging her to let sleeping horses lie. They have made peace with the pale faces, Kocoum is no longer skulking around like a dog ready to bite and Pocahontas has married the man of her dreams. What in the world is there to complain about?

But Pocahontas never listens to Nakoma.

* * *

'You want me to do  _what_ , child?' asks Grandmother Willow for the third time and despite being a very patient young lady, Pocahontas finds this constant repetition is slowly grating on her nerves. 

‘If I watch those two overgrown children go on ignoring each other a moment longer, I think my hair is going to fall out in clumps,’ she explains, clenching a fistful of hair in one hand for emphasis, ‘I thought if anyone could stage some sort of intervention, it’s you.'

The old woman looks flabbergasted, ‘I can provide you with as much advice as you need, Pocahontas, but the stubbornness of a man’s heart is far beyond even my control.'

‘But surely there’s _something_ you can do,’ the girl pleads, her hands practically clasped together, ‘the spirits must have an answer, because I've run out.'

'Perhaps you should just leave things be, child,' the tree's tired, sagging eyes glitter at the young woman sympathetically, 'you wished for an end to the hate and the conflict that poisoned us, for peace and understanding to fall between your people and theirs, and that is what you have. Is that not enough?'

Pocahontas sighs, 'you sound like Nakoma...'

'Some people will never change, my dear,' Grandmother Willow frowns at the squirrel that scoots down her trunk, marring the bark, 'Kocoum and your husband were simply never destined to get along.'

'And it seems they will stay that way until they reach the Happy Hunting Grounds!'

‘Don’t lose heart, my dear. You should be proud of yourself; you’ve brought harmony to these lands and the people who tread its earth. Remember that.'

Pocahontas leaves without the answer she was looking for – though she thanks the tree for her hospitality all the same – and once she’s gone, Grandmother Willow has time to reflect on this bizarre suggestion from a girl who is usually so sensible. Of all the things ever requested of her, she has never heard anything quite as drastic as wanting to change someone. You can’t simply change a person after all; humans are complex creatures, each with their own desires and purpose, passionate about their beliefs and stubborn in their ways. One cannot simply  _change_  that. 

Be that as it may, there are no rules per say about "meddling" with a mortal's personal life. More precisely, nothing that objects to giving two overgrown children a much-needed kick up the backside.

Perhaps a bit of interference would be beneficial for everyone. Not to mention it will finally seal that tiny open wound that remains between the village and the settlers since the events of the previous year.

Providing nothing goes wrong, of course.

* * *

Despite being a man of few words, Kocoum suddenly has the urge to verbally bite someone’s head off.

Ever since a truce was made, the entire village seems to have forgotten their previous caution towards these pale strangers and are now treating them like lifelong friends, instead of intruders who came from across the sea to cut down their trees and dig up their sacred earth.

Their leader – a pompous blob dressed in sickeningly bright colours - had been less than impressed when he discovered the only gold to be found in the New World was the corn that grew in the fields, and quickly departed back to his home across the sea as soon as possible. His assistant, the man who looks like a stick insect, decided to remain and now spends most of his time entertaining the village elders with his unique skills in hedge cutting. 

Kocoum refuses to be taken in by them; he has a tremendous amount of respect for Powhatan but if the old man truly believes these white demons won’t stab him in the back at the first opportunity, he’s a fool. Pocahontas is irritably joyful about the outcome of this treaty – it was her idea, after all – and now she can frolic about the forest with that corn-haired snake of hers without having to worry about anyone dying. Kocoum had hoped Nakoma might show some support of his scepticism but she’s gone all googly-eyed over one of the settlers as well and now spends most of her time watching him chop firewood like a doting puppy.

He remains alone in his hostility. The pale faces are slowly integrating themselves into the village and he’s the only one who refuses to turn on his back like a dog for them. He’s already explained his grievances to Powhatan in a rare, albeit impassioned rant; but his concerns were met with stern dismissal. He’s expected to behave co-operatively with their new “guests.” Or, as Kocoum prefers to think of it, play nursery maid to a clutter of aliens who are completely ignorant to his culture.

‘ _Give them a chance_ ,’ said Powhatan.

He stormed out of chief’s hut with startling aggression and immediately collided with another body; it bounced off him like a pebble striking a stone wall and the poor soul ended up hitting dirt below, yelping like a wolf with an arrow in its paw. Kocoum didn’t speak but he reached down to pick the man back up again and under the silver light of the moon, he recognised a familiar flash of red hair that stood out in the darkness.

He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps apologise, but Thomas had already upped and fled before he could say a word.

'Don't scrunch your nose like that, Kocoum,’ Nakoma’s voice interrupts his musing and he looks at her with dark, slightly narrowed eyes, ‘if the wind changes, your face will stay like that forever and no one will ever want to marry you.'

The warrior remains horribly unamused, 'I'm  _not_  scrunching.'

'Yes, you are,' Nakoma leans further in towards the heat of the fire crackling before them, sticking her feet between the empty food bowls and rubbing her hands together to block out the constant chill of the night, 'you always scrunch your nose when John Smith is nearby. It’s rather cute.'

‘Very funny.'

'I still don't understand what you're so upset about-'

'I'm not upset.'

'-the only reason you asked to marry Pocahontas in the first place was to heighten your reputation. You weren’t _really_ in love with her. So instead of moping over your broken ego, you should focus on finding somebody you genuinely want to share the rest of your life with. Maybe someone who’s already completely and hopelessly smitten with you already.'

She’s looking at Thomas, who is sitting on the other side of the fire, surrounded by a huddle of some of Powhatan’s finest warriors, who are still limitlessly curious about his strange hazel eyes and his shocking red hair. She wonders how Thomas would react if he realised what the true intentions of these men are; that their curiosity goes beyond their fascination of his brown freckles and his white skin and they are already picturing what he would look like stripped of all those unnecessary clothes.

She looks back to Kocoum; he’s staring too but his teeth are grinding together like a bear eating meat, his cheeks abnormally colourful for someone who rarely displays anger. One of the warriors reaches over, cradles Thomas’s jaw with one hand, and she could swear she hears Kocoum growl.

‘You’re jealous,' Nakoma grins as his expression immediately falls back to impassiveness, though his face remains comically red, ‘it’s all over your face. You _like_ him, don’t you?’

‘I’m going to bed,’ Kocoum says instantaneously, his face flushing with discomfort, but Nakoma catches his arm before he can escape.

‘We’re _friends_ , Kocoum,’ she says softly, no longer teasing, ‘Pocahontas is your friend too, and we can’t stand to see you so unhappy. At least consider what I’ve said. I’m not asking you to marry John Smith, just get to know him before you completely write him off. And don’t push Thomas away either; he’s a good person, you can trust him. Everyone else is making an effort; we _all_ share your concern, but it’s time to work together.’

Trust. Kocoum resists the urge to sneer at such a comment. His eyes wander over the fire, past Thomas and his admirers, to where John and Pocahontas are cuddled together outside their hut; their conversation is silent, Pocahontas gesticulating enthusiastically towards the night sky, likely recounting her people’s stories about the stars while Smith drinks in her every word.

As much as he loathes to admit it, Nakoma is right. This isn’t about Pocahontas at all. While he believes his resentment for the settlers is still somewhat justified, this rivalry with John Smith rests on nothing more than hurt pride. Perhaps making relations between them less antagonistic _would_ be beneficial.

And there’s always Thomas…

‘I’ll try.’ He finally answers, which surprises Nakoma, but he doesn’t have the energy to be impatient with her; he carefully slips his hand out of her grasp and makes his way back to his hut, feeling a headache coming on.  

* * *

'-all I'm saying is, John, it wouldn’t hurt for you to be a bit more courteous towards Kocoum.'

John had never realised how much Pocahontas could say in one sentence without taking a single breath. He rubs his eyes with the balls of his hands and lays his head back against her bust, exhausted from a day spent cutting wood and carrying heavy weight and chasing after that god damn raccoon who is always stealing his lunch.

Usually he would return to Jamestown around this time of night to turn in; only Pocahontas had requested he and his men spend the night in the village, to commemorate a year since the conflict ended between their people. A night which predictably ended in the two of them sneaking off to their own hut after a bit of stargazing, and reinforcing their undying passion for each other beneath layers of bear hide until John almost forgot his own name.

But even now, as he rests between her legs to service her with his mouth, she’s still talking about Kocoum and John finds himself completely switching off from the conversation without realising it, focusing instead on rolling his tongue over her awaiting clit.

'I agree completely, dear,' he says between licks, reaching up to play with one of her breasts thoughtfully, 'whatever you say.'

Pocahontas rolls her eyes, though she doesn’t object to his fondling, 'I'm serious John. I don't expect you two to be the best of friends, but you could at least acknowledge each other's existence occasionally.'

'We  _do_  acknowledge each other's existence,’ replies John, giving her a long, hard stroke and sucking up her arousal, ‘I know perfectly well that he’s there - which is exactly why I stay away from him.'

‘You two are absolutely ridic-’ the woman begins, only to cut off abruptly as John’s teeth scrape gently against her sensitive bud and she is momentarily distracted by her own climax. She curses herself internally for allowing her pleasure to get the better of her and waits until John has finished lapping the expelled fluid off the inside of her thighs before she continues, ‘I applaud your attempt at changing the subject, but I’m still not happy about any of this.’

‘It seems my plan to completely erase your memory with that orgasm has been foiled,’ says John humorously as he kisses her knee; but his face softens when he notices her frustration and he pulls himself up to her level so he can brush their noses together, ‘ we have a saying among my people – you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. I can try and be reasonable with Kocoum, but at the end of the day, I have no control over his own feelings towards me. I can’t _force_ him to like me.’

He knows this answer isn’t good enough for his wife. She won’t bend over backwards and accept his word like the women back home might have. Pocahontas speaks her mind. That’s one of the many reasons why John fell for her.

‘I can’t promise you that I’ll ever like Kocoum,’ he goes on, bringing his hand up to caress the side of her face, ‘but I can promise you that I’ll try. I’ll speak with him tomorrow during the hunt. But if he ends up gutting me and using my corpse for furniture, it’s on your head.’

Pocahontas’s smile makes his heart do a spin – but before he can lean in to kiss her, she’s flipped him onto his front, slipping her long legs beneath his belly so he’s lying face down over her lap.

‘I’m so glad you’ve seen reason,’ she brushes her knuckles against the pale skin of his bottom, smiling at how red it will be when she’s done with him, ‘but don’t think I’m going to overlook you trying to manipulate me with your tongue. You’ve earned at least twenty.’

‘Yes ma’am.’ John replies, wriggling so his cock presses firmly against the inside of her leg as she lands the first smack.


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, Kocoum rises early to prepare the canoes for the hunting party, only to be approached and informed by Namontak that the chief wishes to speak to him regarding the upcoming expedition. As soon as he sets foot in Powhatan’s hut, and is met with a rather apprehensive John Smith, he knows exactly what is about to be asked of him.

It appears nothing is sacred anymore. The chief wants him to take along Smith and a handful of the other pale faces so Kocoum can show them the ropes – or at least prove to them that hunting can be easily accomplished without the use of those strange things they call “guns.”

On any other occasion, Kocoum would have dug his heels into the ground and told the old man that he would rather have his eyes pecked out by crows than play nanny to these invaders. Which would promptly lead to him being scolded like a dishonourable child, and perhaps even expelled from the hunt altogether.

But Nakoma’s advice swims idly in his head. He casts his dark eyes towards Smith, then to the huddle of warriors who are holding their breath in the shadows, and finally back to Powhatan.

He says, ‘okay.’

Silence falls upon the hut. His friends finally exhale the air they have been holding in as they gasp at Kocoum’s unfitting passiveness - as if their dear, obstinate friend has been stolen away and replaced with a yellow-bellied demon. Kocoum stares straight forward, over Powhatan’s head, at the paintings on the wall, hoping his discomfort might be mistaken for certainty. John Smith, having recovered from his initial astonishment, says nothing; but his mouth fidgets from side to side as he contemplates smiling, and he gives Kocoum an appreciative nod.

‘He must be ill.’ Kocoum hears someone murmur in the background, and he turns around to lour fiercely at his snooping comrades until they scatter like rabbits.

Thomas is waiting for them at the riverbank, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet with great uncertainty, as if he isn’t quite sure he should be here. He avoids Kocoum’s eyes as the warrior passes him, and when negotiations are opened about sharing canoes, he sticks himself to John like a beast trapped in tar.  

* * *

With Nakoma’s advice still ringing in his ears, Kocoum spends the rest of the day keeping his tongue behind his teeth and his opinions to himself – though the effort very nearly kills him.  

They had arrived at the heart of the forest just before dusk, and Kocoum, ever the reliable and uncomplaining saint that he is, took it upon himself to teach a few of his new associates the ins and outs of a bow and arrow before they retired for supper. And it had been going relatively well – until Smith decided to stick his oar in and completely hijacked the lesson.

Any other day, Kocoum might have made a disparaging comment in his mother tongue that would have the other warriors sniggering behind their hands. But today he crosses his arms, sticks out his chin and just pretends he can’t see or hear Smith at all, wondering what Powhatan was thinking when he allowed his daughter to marry such an exhibitionist. He decides that he hated having to tutor the aliens anyway, and they seem more than happy not having to endure any more of his broken English.

Still, he’s beginning to wonder if there’s anything on this Earth that John Smith can’t do. He wishes there was a way for him to step inside the man's brain and just... _understand_ how he works.

‘You’re too stubborn,’ Namontak scolds him, as they set up camp for the night and Smith takes it upon himself to show the other pale faces how to properly skin bear hides, ‘it’s been a year. If their intention was to cause trouble, they would have done something by now.’

‘There’s still time.’ Kocoum replies bitterly, tossing another twig into the fire, ‘one of them did _shoot_ you, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ says Namontak, ‘but I can understand that they were frightened of us, and that we would have done the same in their position. You should try talking to some of them - apparantely, where they come from, everything is made of brick and stone and there’s scarcely any trees. Can you imagine?’

Kocoum grunts impatiently, but he’s suddenly overcome with this nagging prospect that his friend might have a point. Relations had been tentative during the early days of this alliance but so far, aside from the occasional stares and mildly offensive comments, there has been nothing but cooperation from the settlers.

Be that as it may, Kocoum trusts them as far as he can throw them – therefore, in theory, the only pale faces he can even contemplate trusting are the stick insect (Wiggins,) and the boy, Thomas. He’s certain he could throw them both a good distance.

Said boy is currently clearing away the items left over from dinner, sporting his regular look of sadness, which is the only expression Kocoum ever seems to see on his face, other than uncertainty or surprise. He notices that Thomas doesn’t sit and converse with the other men very often, and Kocoum isn’t sure if he isolates himself by choice. Aside from Smith and the stick insect, the other settlers treat him like a fly on their shoulder or a slave to pick up after them. Watching him tend to all those abandoned dishes alone is almost depressing.

‘We should get some rest,’ Namontak interrupts his thoughts and he realises his mind has wandered further than he intended, ‘we have an early start tomorrow if we intend to track down those deer.’

Kocoum nods in agreement. The pale faces appear to have had the same brainwave, as they eventually disperse from their places around the fire and retire to their tents for the night. Thomas remains sitting on the riverbank, scrubbing away at the dirty dishes until his fingers are rubbed raw.

* * *

Kocoum stays up long after the others have fallen asleep, whittling away aimlessly at an uneven shard of wood as he thinks about John Smith and this alliance, and how he’s going to find a way of understanding the corn-haired man without sacrificing his pride in the process. 

He whittles until he has fortuitously made a strange, lumpy looking heart, which is quickly thrown across to the other side of the tent.

The sound of gentle sobbing from outside catches his attention. He pulls back the flaps of the tent and spies John Smith sitting over on the bank, his arm draped around the snivelling frame of a familiar red-haired cub. Kocoum hasn’t made a huge effort in learning English, but he’s picked up words here and there thanks to Pocahontas and can understand fragments of the conversation going on between the two men.

‘I just miss them so much,’ Thomas whimpers into the crook of Smith’s neck, his strange hat clasped in both hands, ‘mother, father…they must think I’m dead. What will I do, John? I’ve come to love this new world, but then I think of home and I want nothing more than to go back.’

Smith hushes him, his hold on the boy firm, yet loving, ‘no one will force you to stay, Thomas. If you want to leave at any point, I promise I’ll see you home safe. You don’t have to be afraid, we all care about you here.’

Thomas scoffs through his tears, ‘yeah, right. Everyone treats me like a useless child. I’m almost twenty and they talk to me like I’m ten.’

‘The men are only like that because you’re young, it’s just their way. The villagers don’t talk down to you. They really like you.’

‘Not Kocoum. He hates me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘He does,’ Thomas pulls away from Smith, wiping his eyes, ‘you saw how he looked at me today after I scared off that rabbit. He snatched the bow right out of my hands and looked like he wanted to strangle me with it.’

Kocoum’s mind flashes back to that incident in the forest. It’s true that he had been extremely vexed with the boy’s clumsiness, and might have vented his frustrations by confiscating Thomas’s weapon before he ended up killing something other than the prey. But none of that had prompted him to _hate_  the young man.

If anything, Thomas is the only settler he can stand to be around for more than five minutes.

‘I wouldn’t take it personally,’ says Smith with a smirk in his voice, squeezing the cub’s shoulder, ‘he’s like that with everyone. God only knows what goes through that man's head. Now come on, off to bed with you. We have an early start in the morning.’

‘I’m not a baby,’ Thomas protests feebly, but he follows Smith back to the tent they are sharing nonetheless, red-rimmed eyes beginning to droop from exhaustion.

‘Are you spying?’ Namontak’s voice murmurs in Kocoum’s ear, almost startling him.

‘No,’ Kocoum lies indignantly, pulling his head back in and closing the tent flaps, ‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Me neither. Would you like to share furs tonight?’

‘It’s been a while since we’ve done that.’

‘I know, but it might take your mind off how much you despise the pale faces for a few hours.’

Kocoum rolls his eyes, but seconds later falls on top of his friend and tenderly kisses the side of his mouth, ‘will your wife mind?’

‘She’ll be annoyed that she wasn’t here to watch,’ replies Namontak, smiling as Kocoum moves down to suckle on his neck, ‘but otherwise, no.’

Kocoum has heard rumours that the mere concept of two men making love (or simply having casual intercourse to pass the time,) is a heinous taboo to the white men. He can’t understand why; some hunting excursions can go on for weeks and he doesn’t think twice about lying in the arms of one of his friends to seek comfort during the long, cold nights.

But these aliens seem far more apprehensive about sex than Kocoum’s people are. It’s no wonder why they’re so high strung - there are so many rules about who they can and can’t sleep with, they must be dry as a desert down below.

By the spirits, he’s  _still_ brooding.

He pushes all thoughts of the pale faces to the farthest corner of his brain and focuses instead on planting kisses down Namontak’s thighs until he’s reached that special place between his legs.


	3. Chapter 3

John doesn’t go directly to bed after Thomas retires. He waits up for an hour or two, lying flat against the earth and carefully studying the stars above, wishing Pocahontas was here to tell him another spellbinding legend from her people’s history. Or just hold him close and whisper careless words into his ear, until he falls asleep peacefully at her breast. Even if they were to just lie there in silence, wordlessly drinking in the spectacle of the night sky through the dark shapes of the trees, he would rather do it with her than alone.

How he loves his princess. She is, without a doubt, the most remarkable person John Smith has ever met in his life. He’s shaken hands with many a man, lain with many a woman, and yet nobody he has encountered during his intrepid escapades into the unknown has ever come close to Pocahontas. A woman like no other. The woman who cured him of his ignorance. His rock, his island, and without a doubt, his greatest adventure.

If only the naysayers could understand how much he truly loves her.       

His mind wanders a moment, as he stares at the perfect round sphere of the moon; he thinks about Kocoum, the man Pocahontas is so desperate for him to connect with, and wonders, as he did before with Thomas, exactly what runs through the aloof warrior’s mind whenever he stares at John with those dark, unforgiving eyes.

 _Murder_ , he thinks to himself, chuckling aloud. He can hardly blame Kocoum for wanting his blood for bath water after everything that’s happened since the Virginia Company arrived. But Pocahontas is right; this deadlock is bordering on absurdity, and he should be the man to step up to the plate and end it. He’s faced deadlier foes after all.

He’ll speak with Kocoum tomorrow, before the hunt, he decides.

Thomas is fast asleep when he finally returns to the tent, curled in on himself to ward off the cold, his eyes still blotchy and red from weeping. John watches him a moment, the warm hand of empathy squeezing at his heart. He’s going to have a firm word with the men tomorrow about their treatment of the lad; harmless ribbing is one thing, but he won’t stand for any bullying, and given that Thomas is not the sort to make a fuss over nothing, he’s more than certain that there is a rotten apple spoiling the barrel.

With a heavy sigh, he settles himself down next to the sleeping boy and waits until his eyes become heavy.

* * *

Something hangs restlessly in the air.

Kocoum can sense it, even in his current state of peaceful comatose. He turns over in his sleep, burying his nose further into the crook of Namontak’s neck and pressing their warm, wet bodies closer together; but he can’t shake off the feeling that he is being watched, that  _someone_  is watching. A phantom hand gently caresses the shell of his ear, tickles his eyelid, and he frowns in his sleep. After a moment, it retracts its touch and he relaxes once more. 

As soon as John places his tired head on the furs, it’s like lying on a bubble of air, floating in a state of non-existence. It’s a strange, delightful sensation that makes him smile in his sleep, and he curls up to Thomas unconsciously. The faint scent of the woodland caresses his senses, until he feels like he has completely stepped out of his own body and is pacing about like a ghost, movement effortless and aimless.

* * *

Any hope for a quiet morning is thwarted by the arrival of Meeko, who appears to have grown bored of the village and has taken it upon himself to stalk the hunting party all the way to the middle of the forest, no doubt in search of Thomas. He scampers in and out of the tents at the crack of dawn, disturbing their occupants and knocking over empty pots until John, roused from his slumber, loses patience and hurls an empty waterskin at the troublesome animal. He misses, intentionally, but successfully sends the raccoon scuttling for the trees.

It’s far too early to even consider getting up. John groggily bites back a yawn and pulls the furs back around his shoulders, hoping for a few more hours of rest  _without_  any interruptions. Turning over onto his side, his nose is suddenly buried in a mass of black, velvety hair, and he smiles without meaning to. Even first thing in the morning, Pocahontas is fresh as a daisy, and he nuzzles himself in further to slowly breathe in her refreshing scent.

A moment or two passes before it occurs to him that Pocahontas is back home in the village.

His eyes fly open, vision finally clearing, and as he stares down at his new bedmate, he quickly realises that it isn’t Thomas either. The boy has disappeared entirely and been replaced with a stranger. A stranger whose name John can’t quite remember, and who he  _certainly_ doesn’t remember falling asleep next to the night before.

Now fully awake, he swallows the lump in his throat as he gazes warily down at motionless form of one of Powhatan’s warriors; John is not someone who is easily embarrassed but realising that he has somehow ended up sharing furs with another man makes his entire face fill with colour. How on earth this has happened is beyond him - and how he is going to explain this to his wife, or the others, even more so.

He wasn’t drunk, was he? He doesn’t recall drinking any alcohol during supper, though Ben and Lon might have slipped him something while his back was turned. How this other man entered the mix is a blur. But one thing is for certain – when they find out, either Kocoum or Pocahontas is going to kill him, and he knows either one will make sure his ending is long and painful.

With the greatest of care, he slips out from beneath the furs and makes a hasty retreat to the tent door, only stopping when he becomes aware that he is no longer wearing any clothes. Well, he is. But certainly not the ones he fell asleep in. And his hair is long and black, falling past his shoulders like...like...

_Oh God._

He stares at his dark hands, hoping this is a joke, or some sort of twisted nightmare. It must be. Surely this can’t be possible? He’s seen many strange happenings take place in this forest, but never anything quite as outlandish as this.

It occurs to him that if he is here, in Kocoum’s tent, in Kocoum’s body, then Kocoum himself must be…

‘Kocoum?’

John starts, almost tripping over his own two feet, and stares at the man sitting in his bed as if he’s been cornered by a bear. Now that he can see his face, he remembers his name – Namontak. They have never spoken before, but according to Pocahontas, he is a decent man. A skilled hunter and fisher, good with children and Kocoum’s lifelong friend.

It’s safe to say that he’s probably more than a friend, judging by the position he is in right now.

‘Are you alright?’ Namontak peers up at John with dark, concerned eyes, before his mouth suddenly curls into a mischievous grin, ‘it wasn’t _that_ bad, was it?’

John feels all the blood leave his body and pool at his feet. He opts against a verbal response, fearing that his words will come out as slurred, inexplicit nonsense, and merely shrugs, hoping that Namontak doesn’t take it personally.

He doesn’t.

‘You wound me,’ the warrior smirks, reaching over to catch John’s hand and pull him closer, not commenting on the deep shade of red his friend has suddenly turned, ‘I have a few hours to make it up to you though. It’s still early; come back to bed.’

John’s mind screams at him to run for the hills, but his feet can’t seem to follow through with that order. He finds himself on top of Namontak, pressing firmly against the other man until he feels something poke against his stomach, making his new body tremble. He feels heat against his cock, kisses peppered against his jaw and it’s all so new, so sudden, he can barely keep up with what is happening. But before his mouth can open itself to protest, he feels wet fingers push away the loin cloth around his waist and gently slip inside him.

It feels… _good_.

Pocahontas has obliged him with her fingers before, but this is far more intense, drawn out and controlled, clearly ripe with experience. He loses himself in Namontak’s touch, hips moving in time with the protruding hand, and it’s only when he hears Kocoum’s name whispered frantically in his ear that he comes to his senses and breaks away.

‘Kocoum?’ Namontak stares at him, puzzled as the man withdraws hastily, re-adjusting his loin cloth, ‘what’s wrong? Are you alright?’

No response. John pulls himself together and practically dives through the tent flaps, with a speed that would put Meeko to shame. Luckily for him, Namontak doesn't pursue.

* * *

Kocoum is in no mood for an early start.

He makes this clear to Meeko, as the stupid raccoon nibbles playfully at his ear, clicking and squeaking until the warrior swats at him with a tired hand. Now that he is awake, he struggles to get back to sleep, his mind suddenly overflowing with all the upcoming responsibilities for the day, including catching up to the deer herd that has so far managed to evade them. He sighs and rubs his cheeks against Namontak’s scalp, wondering if they have time for a quick fumble under the furs before they rise to start the busy day.

It’s only when he opens his eyes that he realises his nose is caressing a forest of red hair.

 _Red_ hair.

Kocoum springs up like a cat that has been drenched in a cold bath, asking the spirits when and how he had ended up under the same furs as Thomas. Not only that, but he appears to have adopted clothes during the night; that strange material the pale faces wear to cover themselves, soft and fresh in scent, albeit uncomfortable and irritable to the skin.

His long, black hair has somehow vanished, replaced with strange, corn-coloured locks that are tangled from his tossing and turning. He glances down at his pale hands and seizes the half-filled bucket of water that is sitting in the corner of the tent, peering desperately down into its depths.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, _no_...

Kocoum isn’t one to panic, but everyone has their limits. He splashes water over his face once, twice,  _three_  times - then shoves his entire head in.

‘John?’

Kocoum lifts his head, water spilling everywhere as he stares at Thomas through a screen of damp blond hair. The boy is sitting up on the furs, not properly awake yet, blinking sleepily at his companion who is dripping wet in the corner. Kocoum doesn’t give him time to process what’s going on; he shakes himself off like a dog and makes a hasty retreat out the tent door, leaving Thomas to believe he dreamed the whole thing and go back to sleep.

As soon as he steps outside the tent, Kocoum almost instantly collides with another body, sending them both to the ground. He finds himself staring up into a very familiar pair of dark eyes. His _own_ eyes.

* * *

‘Christ.’ John says out loud, and immediately covers his mouth, because the voice that just came out of it wasn’t his own. It’s deep, and monotone, and awfully _serious_.

His own face scowls at him from below, and moments later he’s been rolled off his own body and Kocoum is struggling to stand in his new clothes, ‘it appears the spirits have a sense of humour. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m almost certain that it’s entirely your fault.’ 

‘ _My_ fault?’ John replies, rather insulted, ‘what the bloody hell could I have possibly done to make this happen?’

Kocoum doesn’t make any verbal response, just growls again and stalks over to the riverbank so he can leer at his reflection in disgust. John stays behind, pulling at the stray black hairs that keep getting caught in his mouth. It’s horribly quiet for a few, uninterrupted minutes, the only sound to be heard being that of the birds in the trees and the splashing of water as Kocoum soaks himself all over again.

‘ _Shit_ ,’ John hears him mutter, the first time he’s ever heard Kocoum curse so explicitly; the warrior stands, approaches him with alarming speed and once again they’re nose to nose, blue eyes meeting black, ‘Grandmother Willow likely knows what’s going on. We should speak with her as soon as possible. Until then, we keep our heads down and – what are you laughing at?’

‘Nothing,’ John replies, voice wavering on a snigger, ‘only…I never realised how funny I look when I’m angry.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh, not sure how I feel about this chapter. I found it quite difficult to write, and I'm not sure if I could have executed the "reveal" any better, but oh well. I've really appreciated the comments so far, so glad people are liking it! :)


	4. Chapter 4

‘I still don’t fully understand.’

Kocoum covers his face with his hands, internally battling with the uncanny desire to whack Smith over the head with one of the boat oars. ‘What I’m saying is, our bodies must have switched during the night. We’ve clearly done something to anger the spirits and this is how they are punishing us. The only person who can provide us with answers is Grandmother Willow, which is why we must see her as soon as possible. Does that clear things up for you?’

John lets this information sink into his mind and takes a few minutes to process it, dark eyes darting back and forth in thought. But no matter how hard his brain tries to comprehend what is going on, he just can’t make sense of it all. Kocoum is sitting in front of him, wearing his face, speaking with _his_ voice. How in the world can any mortal man grasp such sorcery?

‘…God, this is-’

‘ _Bad_.’ Kocoum picks up a perfectly round pebble and tosses it towards the river, watching it skip over the surface before disappearing, ‘we must do all we can to appease the spirits, otherwise we could be stuck like this forever.’

‘What can we do?’ John asks nervously, wondering how in the hell Kocoum can be so calm about all this.

‘We should keep away from each other. Being seen together might arouse suspicion.’

‘Stay away from each other? Right. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

They sit in silence for a moment, listening carefully to the voices coming from the camp as the men finally rise to start the day. Meeko re-emerges from the bushes, darting between legs and ruffling people’s feathers until he finally locates Thomas and clambers onto his shoulder like a big furry scarf.

‘We should get to work,’ says Kocoum, standing up and adjusting the collar on his shirt, ‘there’s lots to do before the hunt. Make sure your men…’ he breaks off, and for a moment, John is almost certain he looks embarrassed, ‘…I mean, _my_ men, are ready.’

For the first time in his life, John isn’t sure what to say. He’s so used to having all the answers, to talking his way out of sticky situations, but this is completely beyond his control and he knows that words aren’t going to solve…whatever _this_ is.

‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ he blurts out loud, before he can stop himself, and he can feel his face start to burn as Kocoum’s brow furrows sternly, an expression that looks rather unnatural on John Smith’s usually beaming face. ‘Don’t look at me like that, just… _please_. I can’t do this alone. I can barely wrap my head around what’s going on. I think this would be easier if we worked together.’

Kocoum’s typically stone heart gives a sudden flutter, and he realises that the odd, warm sensation that has swamped into his gut is pride. There is nothing more satisfying in this world, as far as he is concerned, than having John Smith knocked off his high horse and asking – nay, _begging_ for help. Yes, he is doing all this in Kocoum’s body, which takes away the magic somewhat, but nevertheless, it is still blissfully satisfying.

John picks up on this wordless gloating and gives him a wounded look, until Kocoum finally grows tired of watching his own eyes bat at him wistfully and relents. ‘Fine. We stick together. Just don’t get in my way. If this hunt is successful, I’ll be back on Powhatan’s good side, so make sure you don’t do anything to mess it up.’

Smith’s jaw clicks resentfully, and he pushes away a lone strand of black hair that keeps sticking to his mouth, ‘you know, back where I come from, we have a word for people like you. _Bootlickers_.’

He hops to his feet before Kocoum can respond and strides coolly back towards the camp, head held high, despite the constant thud of his heart beating haphazardly against his chest. He’s holding his head up _so_ high, he isn’t looking where he’s going and ends up walking right into Thomas, who is still being harassed by that stupid raccoon. John blinks, opens his mouth to apologise, but it comes out in the wrong voice and he feels the heat rising in his face as the reality of the situation finally begins to dawn on him.

Thomas barely acknowledges his apology. He gawks at him with wide, terrified eyes and slips away before “Kocoum” can say another word.

* * *

The day progresses slowly, and John soon discovers (not surprisingly) that he makes a very unconvincing Kocoum. As soon as he gathers Powhatan’s warriors together and begins briefing them on the upcoming hunt, his enthusiasm is met with several confused stares. He quickly realises that he’s far too animated and immediately drops his hands to his sides to stop himself from gesturing along with his speech. If there’s one thing Kocoum doesn’t do, it’s gesticulate. His arms are almost always hugging his chest, as stiff and stationary as the expressions on his face.

Kocoum has his arms tightly crossed right now, as he stands amidst the group of settlers, his pale face unable to hide the furious colour creeping across his cheeks. He refuses to look any of John's men in the eye. All questions are met with a dismissive grunt. Ben claps him playfully on the shoulder and Kocoum scowls so fiercely, it’s a wonder his face doesn’t split in half. This would be hilarious if the situation wasn’t so dire, and John finds himself biting the inside of his cheek in an effort not to laugh or cry.

Despite his obvious discontent, he appears to have gotten his instructions across to Kocoum’s men regardless, and they start to gather their weapons in preparation to move out. John takes the opportunity to make a mental note of their names, just to make his life a bit easier. There’s Amonute and Matoaka, who are identical twins and almost impossible to tell apart. Keme, who is even taller than Kocoum and has these mesmerising green eyes that make John question his sexuality every time he looks into them. And Achak, the only woman in the group (and the only female warrior in the entire village,) who is beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.

John makes brief eye contact with Namontak, but it’s broken almost immediately and the man saunters past him as if he isn’t even there.

A horrible silence hangs over the party as they make their descent into the forest. Everyone seems to be on edge, uncertain, as if they can somehow see through skin and _know_ that their leaders are trapped in the wrong bodies, silently screaming to be let out. John tries to be rational, remind himself that such things like seeing into other people’s bodies is simply impossible. But given that he is currently inhabiting the skin and bone of his beloved nemesis, the line between possible and impossible has blurred considerably.

They reach a clearing and finally spot the tail end of the herd, grazing just a few yards shy of the surrounding thicket. Kocoum pauses, takes a moment to steady himself as he struggles to keep his balance in his new shoes, and gives a sharp jerk of his head to signal for John’s men to lie low.

They eyeball him, baffled. Kocoum remembers that pale faces need everything verbally explained to them, sighs impatiently and simply mutters, ‘ _down_ ,’ motioning to the ground with one hand the way a master teaches his dog. They finally get the picture and comply, ducking into the long grass.

John turns his attention to the warriors, who have already taken up position, poised and ready, lying in wait like wolves. He chooses their targets, signals for the twins to ready their bows and aim for the two young bucks who have strayed from the rest of the group. Then his eye falls upon what appears to be the alpha male, rising gracefully onto his hind legs to tear off leaves from the higher branches. His fur looks coarse and matted, worn from age, no good for bedding or clothes; but he's a beast with plenty of meat on him, enough to sustain the hunting party alone until the end of their expedition.

Before John’s fingers can even trace the outline of his bow, a flock of wrens come bursting out of the bushes behind them, startling the herd so they flee to the safety of the thicket immediately. He turns to the source of the disturbance, and isn't all that surprised to see Thomas tangled in the shrubbery, having moved too close and disturbed the nesting birds within.

‘Idiot!’ One of the settlers, a large brute of a man called Edward, barks as the herd disappears out of sight. He advances on Thomas menacingly, grabbing hold of his collar with one giant hand and hoisting him up, ‘we’ll never get anything caught with this whelp disturbing half the forest! I _told_ you we should never have brought him along!’

John feels his temperature rising and takes an unconscious step forwards to intervene, but he quickly reminds himself that in his current predicament, he has no real authority over the settlers and could easily arouse suspicion by voicing his objections. Besides, Thomas is far tougher than everyone else gives him credit for. A swift kick to the shin and the bully drops him like a rock.

‘You little bastard!’ Edward snarls, and before Thomas has time to react, he is backhanded swiftly across the face, knocking him into the undergrowth, ‘I’ll have the skin off your hide!’

Everything after that happens in slow motion. John squares up, ready to damn the consequences, march over and seize Edward’s fist in mid-air before it can land on the boy again. But Kocoum beats him to it. He moves so quickly, it’s almost like he’s a part of the wind. One hand clamps onto Edward’s shoulder, spins him round and seconds later, the brute is sprawled against a nearby tree trunk, nose bloody and battered. 

It goes deathly quiet, everyone too shocked to speak. It’s only when Ben loudly clears his throat that Kocoum comes to his senses, as if he’s been snapped out of a trance, and he glances at the red staining the back of his hand as if wondering how it got there. 

He looks down at Thomas, who is staring up at him in disbelief, a drop of blood trickling down from the side of his mouth to his chin where Edward’s knuckles made contact. Kocoum holds out a hand to help him up, but the boy shys away from it, as if he’s been offered a bear’s paw.

The silence persists. Then, Kocoum wipes his bloody hand against his breeches and calmly returns to his original spot in the greenery to retrieve his weapon, as if nothing has happened.   

‘Christ…’ John hears Lon mutter under his breath, and all the settlers take a nervous step backwards.

* * *

The party unanimously decide to stop for a break before they continue following the herd any deeper. Edward, having finally patched up his injured nose, still seems hell bent on breaking every bone in Thomas’s body; but Keme hovers around the boy protectively, his captivating green eyes staring the thug down until Edward finally gives up and lets the kid be.

Kocoum drifts away from the others to begin surveying the ground for deer tracks, but no sooner is he alone, someone seizes the back of his collar and drags him down into a nearby ditch, pinning him to the dirt.

‘What the _bloody hell_ are you playing at?’ John hisses right in his face, holding the man down harder when Kocoum attempts to wriggle free, ‘it’s not enough that you’ve taken over my damned body, you’ve got to make me look like a complete ass in the process!’

‘Get _off_ me.’ Kocoum replies, infuriatingly composed as usual. He makes another unsuccessful attempt to escape but John is larger than him now, using Kocoum’s own physical strength against him. ‘What did you want me to do, Smith? Sit back and do nothing, like you did? I may think your people are a joke, but I wasn’t going to stand by and watch that lout attack someone half his size.’

‘Lout, eh? For someone who claims to despise my people, you sure pick up on the lingo quickly.’ John feels a warm stab of gratification at seeing Kocoum’s face singe at this comment, ‘you should have talked Edward down instead of battering him. You didn’t do it for Thomas, you did it to make _me_ look bad.'

At this, Kocoum suddenly looks genuinely upset, 'that's not tr-'

'Edward is an idiot and I'll have his arse for laying a hand on the lad. But I don't solve disputes by swinging my fists around whenever someone steps out of line. I'm supposed to be their leader, I'm supposed to set an example. There’s such thing as diplomacy.’

'Diplomacy,' Kocoum scoffs, ‘you’re all talk, aren’t you, Smith? Everyone else might worship the ground you walk on, but I know exactly what you are. You parade around like you’re a king, but you're a _coward_. Your wife is a fool to have subjected herself to a man like you.’

This defamation of Pocahontas makes John lose all restraint. He raises one hand back and slaps Kocoum hard across the face, leaving a ghastly red mark. Before the man beneath him can retaliate, John hits him again, the hand prints overlapping each other.

‘Two can play at this game.’ John seizes Kocoum’s jaw, fingertips pressing hard into the skin, leaning all his weight onto the other man’s body so he can barely move, ‘you want to turn my men against me? Go right ahead. But remember that I can do the same to you. Screw with me, and I’ll make sure Powhatan never looks at you with favour again. I’ll turn your name to _mud_ , Kocoum.’

He feels the warrior tremble beneath him, and it’s his turn to be flooded with pride at how the tables have turned. He squeezes Kocoum’s jaw a bit harder.

‘Forget everything I said about working together. Stay away from me. I don't want to look at you, hear your voice or even breathe the same air as you. And if you _ever_  pull another stunt like you did today, I'll see to it personally that your friends despise you for the rest of your life.'

He leans so close to the other man, their noses brush together, like two lovers before a kiss. 'I hate you, Kocoum. I **_hate_** you.'

The warrior glares up at him defiantly, though John is certain he sees the glimmer of angry, unshed tears in his blue eyes. Satisfied that his threat has been received loud and clear, John finally releases him, stalking his way back to the party without so much as a backwards glance.

Kocoum sits up, brushing dirt and twigs from his clothes and furiously wiping away the single tear that manages to escape his eye, before pulling himself together and following John back into the clearing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very satisfied with this chapter, but I hope you guys like it anyway. I'm not too sure what to write for the next one. I was thinking of focusing a little more on Thomas and his thoughts/feelings about the whole situation with Edward. Thoughts? Let me know in the comments! :)
> 
> UPDATE: I’m so sorry for the long wait guys, I’ve recently started college and am already up to my eyes in coursework. I’ve started writing the next chapter from Thomas’s perspective and will hopefully have it posted by October. Thank you for being so patient with me.


	5. Chapter 5

The trail eventually goes cold. Once the evening rears its ugly head, John rubs his tired eyes with the back of his hand and wearily suggests that they settle down for the night. Nobody objects to the notion; as soon as they find a spot that’s scarce of any wild animals or dangerous flora, they throw down the few bedrolls they brought along with them and get started on making a fire.

Thomas stares at the flames until his eyes burn from the effort.

His name has been on everyone’s lips ever since the incident back in the clearing. Everything is his fault. He should never have been brought along. He doesn’t deserve to even call himself a hunter, and so on and so forth. Granted, all these comments are coming from Edward, but no one else is really objecting to the notion that he’s a complete and utter failure. It’s the truth. If it wasn’t for him, they would have caught something far more substantial to eat for supper, rather than the plain old bread and berries they have been left with.

He pretends not to notice Kocoum staring at him, with an expression that can only be described as sheer and utter disappointment. He’s rarely seen the man look anything but poker-faced; but he would take Kocoum’s usual sullen composure over disappointment any day. Seeing those wonderful dark eyes filled with such dismay is enough to break his heart.

As for John, he’s been positively mute since his altercation with Edward. He usually comes to life during the evenings, as if the arrival of the stars brings about an energy that he can never exhibit before sunset; but now he is quiet, removed, sitting on a lone stump outside the circle of men, refusing to bask in the glow of the fire with any of them.

Thomas knows he’s angry. He knows that he is responsible for John’s anger. He wants everyone else to go away so he can approach him and beg for his forgiveness. But the look in John’s eyes is so hostile, he finds himself too afraid to go near him.      

‘If it were  _me_  in charge,’ Edward drawls on, prompting a collective groan from the others, ‘not that I am, but if I  _was_ , there’d be no place on a hunt for incompetent brats like him. He ought to be home with his mother, leave the fighting to the real men.’

Thomas glances at John, half hoping he will intervene again, maybe break a few of Edward’s ribs to go with his swollen nose. But his friend remains distant, fiddling with his hands in stony silence while glaring at the back of Kocoum’s head. Thomas is on his own this time. 

‘Speak up, Edward,’ he keeps his voice low, but loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘I’m not sure the entire forest can hear you yet.’

Ben and Lon chuckle admirably, and the sides of Achak’s mouth creep upwards in what could be amusement. Edward looks ready to pounce on the lad, but he makes eye contact with Keme again and remains in his spot, quietly seething, ‘don’t run your mouth at me, boy. You ought to be taken across a knee, might teach you some respect.’

‘I give respect where respect is due,’ Thomas fires back, cheeks the same colour as his hair, ‘I’ll deem you worthy of respect when you stop strutting around the place like a peacock among pheasants. Don’t think you can walk all over me, Edward - I’m  _not_  a child and I won’t be talked down to anymore! By  _any_  of you!’

He stands abruptly, kicking a stray twig into the fire, making sparks fly. He avoids any eye contact but holds his head up high as he storms past Edward, who appears to be speechless for the first time in his miserable life.

John calls after him but Thomas hasn’t the nerve to look back.

* * *

He’s aware of how foolish it is to wander into unknown parts of the forest alone; but after the day he has had, Thomas couldn’t care less if a fleet of bears were to descend from the trees and tear him limb from limb. He just needs to get away. Get away from the others, away from this New World, away from the dispirited mess that is now his life.

He can’t run from himself.

He’s been running from himself his entire life.

He is well accustomed to the feeling of loneliness. When you spend most of your childhood confined to your bed, weak as a kitten, there isn’t an awful lot of time to make friends in between ailments. He always longed to be wiry and fit, strong enough to play rough and tumble with the other boys. But he wasn’t, he never would be. God didn’t make him that way.

For the first ten years of his life he was isolated, clinging to his mother’s skirts. By the time his parents were informed that he might live to see his twentieth birthday, the other children had grown up without him and he could do no more than stare wistfully out of his bedroom window while they played in the street below.

As soon as he was eighteen and strong enough to hold a hammer, his bedroom was traded for his father’s workshop. He spent most of his days cutting timber and sawing beams until his back strained from the effort and his fingers were worn to the bone. No matter how hard he worked, he never quite mastered the craft of carpentry; but it was a welcome distraction from his lack of companionship, and his fear of the Church, and those sinful thoughts he had of Henry the stablehand when he was alone in bed at night.

He had hoped he would be cleansed of such perversion with a new life, a fresh start far away from home. But then he met Kocoum and those deviant feelings returned, and he realised no amount of running could ever help him evade the demons that pursued him so relentlessly.

How he wishes he could forget Kocoum. Just push him into the farthest corner of his mind and be able to focus on anything but those beautiful dark eyes and that long hair that falls over his shoulders like black silk. He wishes he could walk past the man without trembling like a frightened rabbit while his heart does somersaults in his chest. He wishes he could close his eyes at night and not picture Kocoum on top of him, feel the pressure of his lips and his muscular arms pinning him to the furs as he…

Thomas finally stops walking and realises he has no idea where he is. Only that it’s cold and dark and he will almost certainly fall prey to the wolves if he doesn’t get back to camp soon. But he can’t bring himself to return just yet. He doesn’t want to. He finds a spot under a tree and takes a moment to pull himself together, blinking back the water that gathers at the corners of his eyes until they are sore from the effort. 

He curses himself inwardly for crying, for being so damnably  _weak_. Edward is right. He’s pathetic. He’s a pathetic, snivelling whelp and he’s of no use to anyone.

He doesn’t deserve to be here. 

Something rustles in the bushes and Thomas almost welcomes the claws and gnashing teeth; but when he eventually turns his head to stare death in the face, he realises the newcomer is not a beast but the lone figure of John Smith, undoubtedly sent to retrieve him. Thomas sighs, wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve and starts trying to think up an effective apology as he gets to his feet. 

John speaks before he can even open his mouth, ‘you shouldn’t have run off.’

Thomas’s lips twitch nervously, cheeks already reddening in shame, ‘I know, John. I’m sor-’

‘It’s dangerous to come out here alone and unarmed,’ John cuts over him, voice unusually tense, as if they are surrounded by a hoard of snarling animals right this minute, ‘we had no idea where you went. You could have been-’

He stops speaking and brings a hand up to his forehead, rubbing as if trying to ward off a headache. Thomas watches him nervously, mouth trembling as he makes another meek attempt to apologise, but John speaks again before he can get a word in edgeways.

‘Come.’ He says, and Thomas knows he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. He cautiously approaches his friend and allows John to shepherd him back to the rest of the group, the back of his neck singeing under the gaze of two irritated, yet relieved blue eyes.

* * *

By the time they arrive back at the clearing, most of the men are already asleep; barring Kocoum, who is feeding the last of his supper to Meeko, and Keme, who is setting up snares in the surrounding thicket. Thomas glances at John, the word “sorry” still rolling up and down on his tongue, but his friend leaves his side before he can say anything. The blond man saunters over to the fire, takes up the bucket of water lying nearby and turns it over the flames until they fizzle out. 

Exhaustion finally begins to overwhelm the boy and Thomas contemplates turning in for the night; but Meeko spots him before he can locate his bedroll and scampers over, mouth still stuffed with the berries from Kocoum’s meal. He wanders too close to the thicket and Keme seizes him by the scruff before he can get himself tangled in one of the snares.

‘He’s a menace.’ Keme murmurs and Thomas feels his mouth go dry, because he’s never really heard the man speak a full sentence and his voice is _beautiful_ , ‘I keep telling Kocoum we ought to put him on a leash, but he thinks it would do more harm than good.’

‘If you gave him a leash, he would just chew his way through it.’ Thomas smiles despite himself and carefully takes the raccoon out of Keme’s hold, letting the animal clamber onto his shoulders, ‘it’s my fault he’s here, anyway. He’s always following me around.’

‘He likes you.’

Thomas feels himself blush and quickly reaches up to pet between Meeko’s ears, ‘yes, well. Nice to know someone does, at least. After what happened today, I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone hates me now.’

‘They don’t.’ Keme replies promptly, though his voice remains blissfully calm, ‘no one besides Edward blames you for what happened. It was an accident.’

Thomas isn't sure if he believes him, but he can't bring himself to protest. He just stares into Keme's wonderful green eyes until his knees go weak. 'I should probably go to bed. We need to rise early tomorrow, if we have any chance of catching up with the herd.'

'Of course,' the taller man wavers on the spot a moment and Thomas is almost certain that he looks embarrassed, 'although...you are welcome to share furs with me tonight.' Keme’s large, dark hands reach out and carefully take Thomas's own, his touch feather-light, 'obviously we wouldn’t do it here. Somewhere quiet in the forest maybe, where the others couldn’t hear us. You don't have to say yes, but...I would be honoured.'

The whole world stands still for a moment. Thomas is suddenly frozen, unable to move a muscle, wondering if he's heard properly and Keme has actually just propositioned him, offered to take him to bed, asked him if he wants to have _sex._

Perhaps he's wrong, and "sharing furs" means something entirely different, and he's just misread the situation entirely. But he looks into Keme's eyes again, glowing green in the starlight, and he realises there's been no mistake.

Thomas finds himself struggling to breathe; his palms begin to bead with sweat and he summons every ounce of strength that he has left in his body not to lose his nerve and crumble into a heap right there at Keme's feet. His teeth scrape against his bottom lip, pressing down so hard they almost draw blood. He can feel his stomach tightening with want, as if a thousand butterflies have been set free from the pits of his soul. That unholy, primal urge washes over him and he's so desperate, he can barely fight it anymore. 

He almost says yes. Almost. 

'I can't.' He says instead, legs trembling in anticipation of anger or the back of a hand. But Keme's face softens, thumbs extending to stroke Thomas's pale knuckles until his shaking subsides. 'I'm sorry.'

'You have nothing to apologise for,' replies Keme, 'I understand. I know that relations between men is taboo for your people.'

'It's not just that,' Thomas ducks his head, Meeko's tail tickling his jaw, 'I would be honoured to share furs with you as well. But...'

He spies Kocoum up ahead, slipping into his bedroll in preparation for sleep. Keme follows his gaze.

'I had a suspicion,' the warrior lowers his eyes a moment, in what could be disappointment, but they quickly swivel back to meet Thomas's warm hazel orbs and he lets go of his hands half-heartedly, 'I've seen the way you look at him. I know Kocoum is a man of few words but he is a good person, one of Powhatan's best.'

'He's too good for me,' Thomas says inadvertently, cringing as Meeko nibbles a bit too hard on his earlobe, 'I can't even catch a rabbit without falling over my own two feet. Edward is right, I'm useless at everything. Kocoum would never-'

'You're not useless.' Keme says firmly, and he rests a finger against Thomas's lips before he can object, 'anyone who says you are is a fool and unworthy of your time. We all had to crawl before we could walk. Practise, be patient and close your ears to those who would hold you back. You're stronger than you think, Thomas.'

The sides of the boy's eyes go moist and he realises this is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him in his life. Keme steps away from him before he can utter even a word of thanks and goes back to setting up his snares in silence.

The air grows colder. Thomas finally gets tired of being chewed on like a piece of bark and pulls Meeko off his shoulders so he can hold him in his arms, rubbing his cheeks against layers of matted fur until his tears have been wiped dry.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t apologise enough for the long wait. I’ve recently been bogged down with college assignments and just haven’t had the time or energy to post anything. I’m sorry that this chapter is so short as well! Hopefully you guys will like it anyway.


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